


a series of one-night stands

by orphan_account



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Relationships, X3, all da feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeels, hahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a game he cannot win- a game he has almost stopped trying to win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a series of one-night stands

**Author's Note:**

> more. ficlets. they're getting churned out by the hour.

 

His hands are pinned above him to the bed, there is a body pressed on top of his on the thin sheets, and he doesn't quite know how this happened.

It had started months ago- an accident Elliot had sworn never to repeat, but Tyrell is persistent. He keeps coming back, and Elliot keeps letting him. It is a game he cannot win- a game he has almost stopped trying to win.

The knowledge is bitter on his tongue, a betrayal that pulls at him every waking moment of every day.

It does not seem to matter to the man that Elliot is a hacker who most likely works for fsociety- or maybe that's the whole point of this, and this is all just a sick concoction to turn him or something, or just to undermine him. Either way, its working.

The fading marks on his neck are harshly reapplied every time they repeat this sick caricature of an arrangement, and he closes his eyes, locks his jaw in an attempt not to moan or cry out, a useless attempt at resistance, and it doesn't work. Later the marks will be red, and Elliot has taken to wearing a scarf nowadays no matter the weather just to hide them. It doesn't matter that Tyrell brushes his fingers across those reddened marks afterwards and whispers of ownership and _mine mine mine_. It doesn't matter at all.

A gasp chokes out of his lips, and his hands clench and unclench uselessly- they are still pinned above his head by the stronger man; it just accentuates his helplessness. In some sick portion of his mind he enjoys it, enjoys the loss of control that he only otherwise takes morphine for. Tyrell comes with a groan inside him, and moments later, he muffles a cry as he follows suit, biting down hard on his tongue to keep himself from making any noise- his body falls slack on the bed. He probably looks obscene, with his hair mussed and neck covered in reddening hickeys and bruises.

He relaxes for as long as he can let himself, lying there spent on the bed- but on the first motion to move away, an arm wraps its way around his waist and pulls him back onto the bed into an embrace. A voice breathes a soft sigh as it draws him closer.

He struggles to free himself- he always does, but the man always whispers soothing words in a lilting tongue Elliot does not know, and pulls him close and strokes his hair.

Elliot closes his eyes, hates himself for this weakness as he unwillingly (willingly) presses himself into the warmth of the man holding him- but he cannot stop himself from this; the man's heat is too soothing, Elliot is exhausted, and he has yearned for this longer than he himself has realized.

Traitorously, held in those warm arms and breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of wine and oak, he almost thinks that he could love Tyrell.


End file.
